After a whirlwind trek to a conference in the heart of the midwest, I am finally back at home and looking forward to a good 12 hour nap. Maybe when I’m a bit more coherent, I’ll tell my tales of adventure and daring do from…

This morning I discovered that I was the proud recipient of the *coolest* misdirected voicemail message ever. Now, I’d had some doozies before. For example one gentleman left a message once that went, “Hello master, this is [insert offical sounding name here] and I’m looking at a court record… I’m sorry, I dialed the wrong number.” Yeah, thanks for giving me a heart attack before realizing you’d called the wrong person. But this one is by far, the best message ever. I now give it to you, in it’s entirety, albeit slightly censored:

“Yeah b*tch, I hope you get this motherf*ckin’ voicemail. You better stop messin’ with everybody’s man before you f*ck around and catch this sh*t I got. Yes, you met him on the bus. Yes, you gave him this number. But guess what, b*tch. He got HIV. Do you?”

All I can say is “wow.”

Edited 22:19:
Listen to the message!

After that super-cool phone message, I feel like nothing I can say could possibly seem worthwhile. I could complain about taxes, or the weather, or argumentative Canadians, but it all just seems so droll. Maybe tomorrow something will spice up my life….

I’m thinking that lovely phone message must have been for my neighbor upstairs. Many of my friends have heard me complain before about her noisy, not to mention ridiculously melodramatic, “extracurricular” activities… I mean, does anyone who’s not a porn star really scream ecstatically for 20 minutes? I’m thinking not. But tonight really takes the cake. Here I am, sitting a good 20 feet away from the bedroom, and I can hear her going at it. Now, I realize that she’s entitled to do whatever in the confines of her own home, etc., etc., But for etiquette’s sake, if you live in an apartment, don’t you think you could maybe move the headboard away from the wall or something so that your neighbor’s don’t have to listen to you pounding away at one, two, or three in the morning? Well, obviously she doesn’t. But boy is she going to be surprised one of these nights when I invite a bunch of my friends over to applaud her amazing performance. That’s right, porn stars, the meek shall have their revenge! Heh heh heh…

In anticipation of an upcoming trip to Deutschland, I decided to browse McDonald’s german website. I wasn’t particularly interested in the McFood–I’m looking forward to some more traditional German cuisine. Rather, I was trying to see if I could find any information about them providing some in-store wi-fi goodness for me and my McLaptop. Alas, I failed in that department, but I discovered that Germans are even stranger than I thought. Check this out:

McAsian gone McAwry. Ich leibe es? I think not.

In the course of some last minute shopping with mi madre (poor thing came out to Chicago on the coldest weekend since February!), we came across this store:

For those of you who can’t quite make heads or tails out of my lovely camera phone photo, that store name is the Love Sac. Oh yes, the store sells giant ball sac–er, beanbag chairs. Call me crazy, call me a prude, call nme whatever, but I just can’t imagine going into that store and buying a “love sac.” And from the deserted look of the place, I guess no one else could either.

I certainly welcome a change of scenery or getting to explore some far off place. But I hate travelling. Why does the actual process of getting somewhere have to be so nerve-wracking? As if all the preparing, making phone calls, confirming dates and times, packing, cleaning, checking and rechecking, and waiting at the airport isn’t all exhausting enough, you then still have to go through the traumatic process of actually flying across hundreds, if not thousands, of miles of land and water 30,000 feet below you. How is one supposed to sleep at night knowing the countless things that still need to be done, worrying about the countless other things that could go wrong at any step along the way? Who the hell ever decided that travel was relaxing?

Today is the big day. I’m off for Europe. I get to see some old friends, learn a little German, and visit some places I’ve never seen before. All in all, it’s pretty exciting, although my heart is not as overjoyed and carefree as I would like it to be. Aside from the fact that I do hate flying (as David mentioned), I also have to leave behind some loved ones. That is, the ratties and Mr. Mouse.

I don’t know if I ever mentioned my little mouseinator before. He’s always just kind of been there. I never even meant to adopt him, he just sort of became mine when a local animal shelter asked me to be his “foster home.” But for nearly two years I’ve enjoyed his company (even if it was a bit stinky at times). But at last his time had come. Riddled with tumors, I realized that I had to put him down before I left. It wouldn’t have bene fair to make my rat-sitter take responsibiliy for it anymore than it would have been fair to Mr. Mouse to let him keep struggling until who knows when. Still, I wish I could go back to the days when he would run incessantly in his wheel, or climb up to the top of the cage and hang upside down from the screening on top. In short, I miss the little guy.

Bon voyage, Mr. Mouse.

London.

After a horribly cramped British Airways flight (mental note: unless you have $20,000 to spend on a first class ticket, don’t fly British Airways), Celia and I made it to London. We were tired, but in one piece and all our luggage managed to make it with us too!

We’ve been here a couple of days now, and while the sights have been nice, the city just doesn’t impress me that much. To be honest, I don’t know how someone could stand to live here year round. Aside from the fact that it’s outrageously expensive if you don’t get paid in pounds, it seems so crowded with tourists that I think I’d go nuts if I lived here. I guess all major cities have their share of tourist madness, but truly, London seems both maddening and not all that interesting. Maybe if I was more into fashion or something, I’d appreciate it more. At least the bloody historical bits are interesting!

Prisoner’s collar from the Tower of London

Site of the executioner’s scaffold, Tower Hill

Leyden Jars from the Faraday Museum